


Glass Wall

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abuse, Forced Prostitution, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia Benson, Detective at Special Victims Unit, needs Peter Burke's help when she has to infiltrate a prostitution ring. Peter is not one for these types of crimes, but he poses as an art buyer of forgeries--one of the criminals' side business. However, what and who he finds is not what he expected--or could have even ever imagined. </p><p>Set post season 6.</p><p>***Epilogue added***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Detective Benson, with all due respect, I don’t believe this is a white collar crime. I’m not entirely sure what I can do for you,” Peter Burke said, reaching for his mug of coffee.

Olivia Benson, one of the most respected detectives at the NYPD, was in her usual brash form and picked the manila folder off his desk. She opened it and grabbed the photos inside. After slamming them down on the desk, she took her finger and pointed at one particular object.

“Sorry, Agent Burke, I didn’t major in art history in college, but I believe that is Picasso’s ‘Harlequin Head’ in the background.”

Peter put down his mug and picked up the photo, holding it to the light. Two men were standing outside a warehouse, next to a semi-truck. A man behind them had a large frame in his hand, presumably moving it inside.

“Well, Detective, you’re right and wrong. This particular painting was stolen from the Kunsthal Museum in Rotterdam back in 2012. It’s presumed to have been burned. It’s most likely a forgery.”

“Isn’t that what this division does? Look into forgeries?”

Peter sighed. He had three open cases at the moment, one of which he was actually close to cracking. And to be honest with himself, he didn’t have the time or energy to open a fourth. Maybe if Neal was still around . . . but he was in Paris, looking at real Picassos now.

“It’s not exactly high on my list of priorities at the moment. And I thought you were Special Victims Unit, Detective. I’m curious, why you are taking time out of your day to bring me this case?”

She gave him a stern look and reached again for the photos. “I actually don’t give a damn about the painting, Agent Burke, but I thought given this office’s reputation on art thieves and forgers, you might help me infiltrate, because I actually give a damn about these missing people here.”

Peter look down at his desk, this time there were five photos. Three women and two men. All looked in the twenties and thirties.

“These guys are not just into stealing and selling pretty paintings, they’re into stealing and selling pretty people,” she said.

“Christ. Sex trafficking?”

“That’s right. I believe these people are being held against their will and forced to do unimaginable things. And I think they’re alive.”

A pit formed in Peter’s stomach. He never had the stomach for these types of crimes, or criminals for that matter, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. “I’ll help you with whatever you need, Detective.”

Olivia gathered the photos off the desk. “Good. Those two men, standing outside the truck, their names are Boris Yelk and Riggo Lintova. Came from Russia a few years ago. One of the victims from the photos has been missing almost 10 months—”

“10 months?”

“Yes.

“And you really think they are still alive?”

“I would like to hope so. Boris and Riggo don’t like to throw away anything unless it’s completely useless. They won’t discard their commodity unless they have to.”

“How do you know that?” Peter asked, unsure if he wanted an answer.

Olivia cleared her throat. “We found a victim. Dead. Her body was completely mangled, from the inside out. I won’t go into further detail, but there were obvious signs of long term abuse.”

“And how did you connect her to these Boris and Riggo characters?”

“Because, Agent Burke, we found another victim, alive. She was able to identify and confirm the deceased as a fellow captive.”

“So you think these paintings are a side business?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes. These guys will do anything for a buck, obviously.”

“I’ll put my best people on it, Detective.”

“Thank you, and please, call me Olivia.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You were right, Peter, Boris and Riggo are nasty guys,” Jones said, pulling their pictures up on the screen.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Not much is known about them before 2010, but they came from Russia around that time. My friend down at INS says they both got into sham marriages to obtain citizenship, but they couldn’t prove it. Riggo, the younger of the two, got arrested four years ago for assault, worked out a plea deal with the prosecutor and got two years probation.”

“Love the justice system.”

“Boris was arrested and tried in court about a year ago on a suspected rape and murder of Kelly Turner. Female, 25 years old, from Queens. Exotic dancer. The D.A. didn’t get a conviction.”

“Why not?”

Jones didn’t say anything.

“Why not?” he asked again.

“Because he burned her body so badly that no evidence could be gathered. I won’t show you the photos. He was only considered a suspect because he was a known patron down at the club she worked at and her cell phone records showed his number as the last one dialed.”

“Jesus,” Peter said, scratching his head. “These guys are monsters.”

“You got that right,” Jones said. “SVU believes they are running a sex trafficking ring. They find people, in their twenties and thirties, who are extremely good looking, don’t have a lot of families, i.e. people who won’t report them missing, and force them to perform sexual acts on people for money.”

“Like a prostitute?”

“Sort of, except a prostitute in theory performs sexual acts of their own free will and then gets paid for it. In this case, the victims are forced to perform and Riggo and Boris get the money. They are not allowed to leave wherever they are being held. The ‘customers’ have to go to them, not the other way around.”

Peter shuddered. “So what about the painting Detective Benson showed me?”

Jones pulled a picture of it up on the screen. “It’s a forgery for sure. SVU shared their intel with me, they had about ten other identical paintings brought to the warehouse. It’s a side business like you thought.”

“So why haven’t they searched the damn warehouse? They have evidence of illegal crime happening there.”

“SVU isn’t 100% the victims are being held at the warehouse.”

“But it’s a possibility and. . . those innocent people. I would think it would be worth it to go in.”

“SVU is afraid that if they do, and the vics are not there, they’ll be moved from wherever they are or possibly killed.”

Peter nodded. “So why haven’t they sent someone undercover? Pretending to be a buyer?”

“Buyer of what?”

Peter swallowed. “Of a painting. Or shit, why not send someone pretending to be john?”

“Borris and Riggo are careful. This is really an underground network. You have to know someone who knows someone, that way they know they can be trusted. Detective Benson believes it will be easier to infiltrate as a fellow forger or art thief. However, they are careful about that, too---same deal, you have to know someone who knows them.”

Peter nodded. “Well, I think we know someone who has those credentials.”


	3. Chapter 3

“What makes you think I would help you, Suit? I am a law-abiding citizen, just trying to make a buck with my cards.”

“You are far from law-abiding, Mozzie. And don’t think I believe you when you say you’re just trying to make a ‘buck’,” Peter responded.

“Well, I’ve told you plenty of times, I’m not in the game anymore.”

“Yea, all that money that went missing during the Panther heist made you real comfortable, I’m sure.”

Mozzie shuffled the cards. “I have no clue what you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Well, I suppose I could go to Paris, track down Neal. Maybe he could help.”

“Don’t drag him back into your life, Suit. He gave up everything to be free, including his life here in New York. Besides, I’m told it takes a lot of paperwork to bring back a dead man.”

“Which is why I don’t want to do that. I’m content with what Neal has done. Thinking back, it was probably the only way he could truly be free. Now please, help me.”

“I’m sorry, Suit, but I’m not falling for your ploys. You won’t get me on a leash the way you did with Neal.”

Peter placed a photo on top of the stack of cards. “Take a hard look at this photo, Mozzie. Her name is Jessica Malloy, 31-years old, investment banker.”

“Pretty, but not my type. I like a more rugged look.”

Peter reached back into his pocket and slammed down another photo. “Perhaps she is more your type then.”

Mozzie snatched his hand away from the photo, as if it were on fire. The young woman was badly beaten. Cuts littered her porcelain skin. Dried blood mattified her blonde locks. Her eyes were closed, but Mozzie knew she was not asleep. “Put that away.”

“I want to put the men that did this to her away.”

Mozzie sighed. “I’ll snoop around, maybe talk to some of my former contacts.”

“They’re trying to pawn fake Picassos. I want to know how to get a meeting with them, in case I’m interested in buying one. Understand?”

“And if I find this out, who do I contact? Lady Suit?”

Peter took the photos off the table and put them back in his pocket. “Diana is in D.C. now, call my office.”

“Ha!”

“Fine, call Elizabeth if want, just please, do this for me.”

“I will call Mrs. Suit later today with what you need.”

“Thanks, Moz.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Code work is ‘Rembrandt’, got it? Olivia and I will be right out here,” Jones said.

“I’ve gone undercover plenty of times, Jones,” Peter said as he put special microphone watch around his wrist.

“This is just a first meeting, don’t try too hard to find out where they’re keeping the victims,” Olivia said.

“It’s going to take every fiber in my being not to rip these guys heads off.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m going in.”

“Be careful, Boss,” Jones said.

****

Peter entered The Tea Room, a known Russian hangout lounge in Brooklyn near the bay. It was almost 1 A.M., but Peter learned this was when their night usually began. He checked in with the hostess, who promptly took his coat and directed him upstairs to the dining area. He noticed two other patrons, sitting in the corner drinking dark amber liquids from crystal glasses, but he couldn’t tell whether they were part of Boris’s or Riggo’s crew.

 “Mr. Tuft, I’m glad we could meet. I’m Boris,” he said in his thick Russian accent. Boris was well over six-feet tall and probably weighed 250 pounds. He appeared in his early fifties and his hair that was turning from black to gray confirmed it. A dark maroon suit clothed him and the gold rings adorned on his fingers complimented it.

“Please, call me Dorian,” Peter said. “My guy says you’ve got some beautiful merchandise for me.”

“That I do. Please sit, have a drink. We’ll get to the business later.”

“Of course.”

A half-hour later, drinks were drowned and Boris seemed to be having a grand time. Peter played along, pretending to get drunk, exchanging stories of past art schemes he had ‘pulled off’. In reality, he was just sharing what other thieves had tried to get away with under his nose.

“May I offer you gentlemen another round?” the waitress asked. She had dark brown hair, a slinky silver dress covering little of her slim frame, and bright cherry lips.

“Why not?” Boris said.

“Sure,” Peter said with a smile. She walked away and he made sure to leave his eyes lingering on her ass.

“Like what you see, Dorian?” Boris asked, lighting a cigar. “I could put in a good word with Milania.”

“Maybe, Boris, maybe. Although, from the little interaction I’ve had with her, I can tell she’s a handful.”

Boris laughed. “Oh, you are quite right my friend, believe me, I know.”

“I prefer them a little more docile, if you know what I mean.”

“You and I more alike than I thought then.”

Peter smiled, but the pit in his stomach grew. _I’m nothing like you, Boris, you pathetic, disgraceful bastard._ _They should cut your balls off and let you bleed a slow and painful death._

“Watch it, Burke. Don’t let him catch on that your eager to know about his other merchandise,” Olivia said into his earpiece. “You could scare him off.”

But Peter knew what he was doing. Milania returned with two large drinks on her tray.”Here you are,” she said.

“Thanks, honey,” Peter said. And when she turned to leave, in one swift motion he gave her a light tap on her ass.

She turned around and gave him a disgusted look. Peter, as much as he hated it, winked. Boris laughed loudly.

“Hmm, maybe she can be tamed after all,” Peter said.

“You’re a man of fine taste, Dorian. I have enjoyed getting to know you and I believe we would work very well together.”

“I believe that as well, Boris.”

Boris took out a card from his jacket and placed it on the table. “Come to this address tomorrow night, alone. I believe you will find some very interesting things to buy.”

Peter smiled and took the card, all while trying not to vomit on himself. “Looking forward to it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Riggo Lintova was 43 years-old. He grew up in Tolyatti, one of Russia’s poorest cities. He never knew his mother. She left when he was two and his sister was three. His father threw punches at him for every cent he thought he deserved but did not get. But Riggo learned from this—take what you want, because no one on this green Earth is going to give it to you.

So Riggo hustled. He hustled his way from Tolyatti to Moscow, selling cigarettes, booze and counterfeit purses. He jacked up the prices by 3,000%. It was only seven years ago that he met Boris, who was looking for some 100 year-old whiskey. Riggo couldn’t get it, but he got a damn good forgery of it and that’s when Boris decided they should be partners. So Riggo was the muscle. He moved things, he hit people, and he always got what he wanted. Boris was more the talker of the two, which was a good balance because every product needed a good salesman.

Coming to America was easier than they said it was. He found some ditzy stripper through one of his cousins who lived in Queens, and married her in exchange for $10,000. She had a friend who did the same for Boris. After three years, as promised, they divorced.

Riggo and Boris spent those first three years hustling, just like they did back home. The problem, and there always was one, was that cigarettes and booze were easy to get in New York, and no schmuck was going to pay even 10% above the selling price. And counterfeit purses? Please, Canal Street down in Chinatown had that covered.

Riggo knew it was all about supply and demand. He just had to find something that was out of supply, get that supply, and then cater to those that demanded it. He had no conscious so it was not a problem to go darker and darker to the other side.

Rare paintings were hard to come by, but certainly not forgeries of them.

As for the selling of sex, Riggo knew exactly who that would cater to. Rich men, perhaps even some women.

“Dorian, welcome. This is my partner, Riggo,” Boris said.

“Nice to meet you,” Peter said, holding out his hand.

Riggo didn’t take it, though. He pulled on the cigarette in his mouth and after a long inhale, exhaled the smoke right into Peter’s face.

“Riggo, don’t be rude,” Boris said with a chuckle.

Peter waved the smoke away.  “So, I’m interested to see what brought me all the way out to this warehouse. It must be special.”

“We only have special things,” Riggo said. “That’s what we do.”

“Oh, of course, I meant no disrespect,” Peter said.

“You here for Picasso, dah?”

“Dah, indeed.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Both Peter and Boris followed Riggo across the vast floor of the warehouse. Peter looked around as best he could, but it was quite empty, to say the least. There was nobody but the three of them inside.

They entered a room and Peter was surprised at how large it was. Riggo went for the large safe and input the combination. Peter couldn’t help but think how quickly Neal could crack that lousy piece of metal in front of him. Hell, Neal could probably just breathe on it and it would open.

Riggo opened the door and low and behold, there were at least seven forged Picassos resting inside of it. He grabbed the first one and lifted it towards the table beside him.

“You can make a lot of money, telling some poor sap that this is the real thing,” Boris said.

“Yes, I’m sure I can,” Peter said.

“$30,000,” Riggo said.

“$30,000? I believed Boris said earlier that it was $20,000.”

“It’s $30,0000. That price is for every one you purchase after this one.”

“Ah, yes, you’ll have to excuse me. It was my mistake,” Boris said.

Peter took a step closer towards the painting, pretending to look at the detailed work. “Well, I suppose that seems fair. Like you said, I’ll make that money back and over. And I don’t mind paying for pretty things.”

Peter’s eyes remained on the painting, but he could just feel Boris and Riggo looking at each other. And he was right—they took the bait because the two started conversing with each other in Russian.

“Nyet, nyet, nyet,” Riggo kept repeating. Peter knew that meant no.

“Dah, Riggo,” Boris said. His tone had changed from calm to firm. Boris had won the argument.  

“Dorian, my friend and I would like to invite you to a party tomorrow night,” Boris said, clasping his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Yea? What kind of party? You guys have some other artwork to show me?”

“You could say that,” Riggo stated.

“It’s an exclusive event, very small gathering. Bring your checkbook.  I sure you will find something you want.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll be there.

 ********

  

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Olivia said, barging into Peter’s office.

Peter opened his desk drawer and pulled out his wedding ring. “My job,” he said, sliding the gold onto his finger.

“You’re job is to infiltrate as an art buyer. Who gave you permission to go further than that?”

“You did. You came to me for help, so I did. Not only have I gotten them on these counterfeit charges, but I’m about to get them on conspiracy, rape, and sex trafficking. Your welcome.”

“This is dangerous, Burke.”

“You think I don’t know that? These men are the scum of the Earth. I know they wouldn’t blink an eyelash if they decided to whack me tomorrow, but guess what, I’m going to that ‘party’. I’m going to find those victims and then you can thank me. It took me two days to get inside, what did your unit do?”

Olivia said nothing at first. She turned and faced the window and glazed down at the dark city before her. “I want these guys behind bars more than anyone, but this is not your area of expertise, Burke, no offense. There are so many variables against us. A number of things can go terribly wrong and those innocent people might die.”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to not let happen,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “This is the address where they told me to be tomorrow night. Coordinate a team to stand-by. I’ll be wearing the watch, the code is still ‘Rembrandt’, when I know it’s a safe time to head in, I’ll give you the go.”

“How can we guarantee that all the victims will be saved? There are 10 or 11 of them, who knows where each of them are locked up? They could each be guarded—”

“That’s the risk we have to take unfortunately. But this is happening tomorrow. Those victim’s prayers are going to be answered.”

Olivia nodded and turned around. “We better get some serious money into your bank account.”


	6. Chapter 6

Peter entered the building on Avenue X, located in Sheepshead Bay, at around 10:30 that night. It looked rather small, wedged in between two other buildings. He had his earpiece, his watch, and Dorian Tuft’s checkbook—an account which had about half-a-million dollars of government money in it. A few steps into the door, a woman holding an i-Pad greeted him.

“Good evening, sir. May I have your name?”

“Dorian Tuft.”

She peered down and then back up with a smile. “Very good, Mr. Tuft. Please proceed to the elevator.”

He smiled and did as told. He thought he was going up, but the service man inside pressed a button and Peter felt his stomach drop as they went down—about five or six floors.

When he stepped off, he was taken aback by where he was and just how it could exist so deep underground. The marble floors gleamed and white columns were erected every 20 feet. The place was huge, with hallways and doors all around. He looked around some more, noticing there were nine other well dressed men, sipping on whiskey and gin, smoking cigars, eating hors d’oeuvres.

“Dorian, I’m so glad you could make it,” Boris said, slipping away from a man he was currently talking to.

Peter forced a smile, trying not to think about how real this all was. “Boris, nice to see you again.”

The two shook hands and Peter wanted to rip it out of his socket. He couldn’t wait to slap cold metal around them in just a short while.

“I can’t wait for you to see what I have to offer, very fine artwork—though, it is a bit different than the Picassos.”

“How do you mean?”

Boris smiled, “You will see soon enough. You are the last to arrive, so we will begin shortly. Please, have a drink.” He snapped his fingers at a waitress and she nodded.

Boris walked to the center of the room. “Gentlemen, may I have your attention please.” The room got quiet and all eyes turned to him. “We have some very special merchandise for you tonight. I am confident you will all be very pleased. If you would please follow our beautiful hostess Galina.”

Peter, with his drink in tow, followed the men. Each step he took, he thought would be his last. He felt uneasy and did not know what this hallway would lead to, but he knew it was not good.

Galina guided them down the hallway which turned circular. She directed each man to his own door. She then opened up Peter’s and closed the door behind him. The room was small, dimly lit by a lamp, carpeted, and at a perfect temperature. A large maroon leather chair faced a glass wall in front of it. He peered into it, but it was dark on the other side.

“Please have a seat,” a woman’s voice from the intercom said.

Peter did as he was told. To the right of him was a small table with a buzzer on it. He took a deep breath and brought his hand to his face. “I wish everyone could see what I see so far,” he said into his watch. He waited for a response and when several seconds passed and he didn’t hear one, his heart shot up towards his throat. He didn’t even hear static. Was he so far underground that there was no signal?

“Gentlemen, all cell phones and electronic devices have been turned off. The bidding will now begin.”

Lights suddenly turned on and Peter could see through the glass wall. The middle of the room was empty, nothing but an empty wooden floor. He saw, the other men seated in identical rooms, and heard them clapping.

The lights turned off and Peter was not sure what was happening. Ten seconds later, the lights were back on and now in the middle of the room was a young woman, wearing nothing but a bra and panties. Peter’s throat hinged on the shock of what he was witnessing. Her skin was lightly bruised and her dark brown hair covered most of the ones on her cheek. She stumbled slightly, her eyes long and drawn.

“Here is Felicity. 29 years old. Speaks fluent Italian. Starting price is $75,000.”

Peter heard a buzzer go off.

“I have $75,000.  $100,000?”

A buzzer went off again.

“$150,000?”

Another buzzer went off.

“200,000?” Silence lasted for five seconds, but Peter believed 100 years had truly passed. “Sold for $150,000.00 to the gentlemen in box three. Thank you and have a pleasant evening.”

The lights went off. Peter was stunned and sick at the same time. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone—there was absolutely no signal.

The lights came on again. Now a man stood. He had blonde hair, was over six feet tall, and very thin—though Peter knew he should have weighed more. He too stumbled and swayed, revealing long, jagged nail marks on his back.

“Charles. 31 years old. Just welcomed here last month. He’s a feisty one. Bidding will start at $100,000.”

The bidding went on for a full two minutes, eventually landing on $275,000 before the lights went out again.

Peter really believed he was going to vomit, right there in that tiny elegant room. He really didn’t know how much more of this he could take, but he sat there through three more bids.

“Okay gentlemen, we have our last male of the night and we of course, always save the best for last.”

The lights came on and Peter knew he had not gone down five floors to the basement—he had gone straight down to hell. The man was six feet tall and almost emaciated. His ribs peeked through his paper skin and was covered in purple, black and blue. His dark locks were slicked back, like it had been combed that way. His face, and Peter knew it better than the back of his own hand, was also covered in bruises.

Neal.


	7. Chapter 7

Tears built up in Peter’s eyes as he put his hand on the glass. He watched as Neal’s feet shuffled forward and then back, moving with such lethargy. His blue eyes were glazed as he glanced around the room, as if he had no idea where he was. His mouth was partially open, but then he closed it and swallowed painfully.

_No! Neal was in Paris! This was not him—it just couldn’t be. He was free, free from the FBI, free from the Panthers, free from his past. How could this be?!_

“And here we have Neal, 36 years old and in his prime. Just look at that face. Bidding will start at $250,000.”

The buzzer went off.

“$300,000?”

Another buzzer.

“$350,000?”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and slammed his hand down on the red button.

“$400,000?”

The buzzer went off yet again.

“$425,000?”

And again.

“$450,000?”

Peter hit his buzzer again and again and again. He knew he had only $500,000 and if he lost the bid, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

“$500,000?”

The buzzer went off again.

 _No!_ _Please, no._ There was silence. _Where was that voice, raise the damn price to $550,000 so I can hit this damn buzzer!_

“Sold, to the gentlemen in room five, have a pleasant evening.”

“No,” Peter said aloud. He hit his buzzer three times in quick succession.

“I’m sorry, sir. $500,000 is our limit. Please enjoy the other merchandise.”

Silence panged the air.

The lights went off. Peter couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, and he certainly couldn’t breathe. When they came back on, Neal was gone and in his place was another woman.

“This vivacious blonde’s name is Victoria, 26 years old. Bidding will start at $100,000.”

Peter hit his buzzer.

“$150,000?”

Peter hit it again. This went on for about a minute, until the price reached $250,000.”

“Sold to the gentleman in room six. Have a pleasant evening.”

His door opened and Riggo entered. “You like this one. You also liked the one before. Swing both way, dah?”

Peter couldn’t bring himself to answer. He wanted to literally take his hands and rip this sick bastard’s face off, he wanted to take pliers and rip his crooked yellow teeth out—one by one, and he wanted to take a chainsaw and cut each of limbs off while he was lucid and awake.

“Dah?” Riggo said again.

“Yes,” Peter forced out.

“You surprised me, Mr. Tuft, but I am pleased—and you will be too. Please follow me.”

Peter was in such an utter state of shock that he did as told. He needed to figure this out. He needed to get Neal out of here, along with the others and himself. He exited out into the hallway and was met by another well dressed man. He was bald, shorter than himself but taller than Riggo, and easily weighed over 300 pounds. Was he a bidder?   

“I believe I outbid you, sir,” the man with a thick southern accent said. “Sorry about that, but Neal is the best. Worth every penny.”

Peter’s legs turned to jelly and he couldn’t breathe that well. “So . . . you’ve been with him before?”

The man chuckled, “Oh yes, tonight will be my fifth time if I can remember correctly.” The man must have noticed Peter’s still face, which was quickly turning into anger. “Hey buddy, don’t feel bad. I’ve been outbidded before with Neal—but the others are just as good. Better luck next time.”

“I’m not your buddy, and there won’t be a next time,” Peter grunted angrily under his breath.

“What was that?”

Peter coughed and composed himself. “Nothing.”

“Sour grapes,  I see.”

Finally, Riggo stopped in between two doors, both of which had padlocks on them.  

_Neal is here, behind that door. I need to get in there, please, let me in there!_

“You pay on the way out, and if you don’t, we cut your balls off, understood?” Riggo asked, reaching into his pocket. “Four hours you have. Plenty of time. Knock if you finish early, someone will open the door. Nothing is off limits.”

“What . . . what do you mean by that?” Peter asked.

“They are drugged, so if hitting or biting is your pleasure—fine, just don’t kill them.” He turned to the man, “And remember, Neal is our best merchandise, always the highest bidded, so we want him around,” Riggo said, putting the key into the lock. “You were too rough with him last time, we almost had to kill him he was so mangled after you were through with him. You’re lucky he recovered.”

“If he doesn’t know how to follow your rules, then perhaps I should be the one to be with Neal tonight,” Peter blurted out. He couldn’t let this redneck hurt Neal—again. To just even imagine him being used and hurt this way or any other way sent his blood boiling.

Riggo inserted the key into the lock, “Nyet. That’s not how this works.”

“I’ll pay the difference, hell—I’ll pay double for him.”

“Nyet. You may try again next week for him,” he said firmly as he pushed open the door.

Peter could see over Riggo’s shoulder into the room. Neal was on a bed, his left arm was up and chained to the headboard. A blanket was covering the lower part of his body.

“P-pl-please, Riggo,” Peter said. The desperation was laced heavily in his voice.

The redneck beside Peter entered the room. “Miss me, Neal? I’ve sure missed you.”

Riggo closed the door and locked it. He walked to his right to the next door and put the key in. “You go in here. She is a good time, I promise.”

Peter was absolutely desperate now, but he couldn’t completely break. He would figure this out. He had to. He cleared his voice and tried for the last shred of hope left. “I thought you were going to show me some more artwork, maybe some Rembrandts. Got any of those around?”

Riggo took the key out of the lock and faced him. “I can get those if you want, later. For now, this is what you paid for.” He pushed the door open. “Enjoy, Mr. Tuft.”


	8. Chapter 8

The door slammed shut behind him and it made such a loud noise that he turned around, startled. He lifted his wrist to his mouth, “Olivia, Jones—get in here. I’m six floors below ground. Send all the back-up you have. Get paramedics.”

Nothing but silence returned.

He took a deep breath and turned around, afraid of what he would see. She was young—but that didn’t matter. No one at any age should be in her position. Both of her hands were chained to the headboard. Her eyes were open but Peter knew she was not there. He took off his jacket and slowly made his way to the bed. He placed the jacket on top of her almost-naked body and felt her quiver as he did. He put his knee on the edge and planted his weight down on it.

The woman closed her eyes and turned her head.

Peter reached for the chains around her wrists. He looked around the room, finding nothing of value. But then the black against her blonde locks caught his eye. As gently as possible, he reached for the top of her head and that’s when he heard her cries. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” he said, lifting the bobby-pin from her head.

But this woman didn’t believe him, and why should she, Peter thought as he heard more cries escape from her mouth.

Sweat poured down his head as he tried a second time to undo the lock on the chains.  Finally, on the third attempt, he heard the pins unlock. He removed the chains, and as he did he saw blood on his hands--but it was not his. Her skin had been rubbed raw from the friction against the tight metal.

“Christ,” he whispered as he brought her hands down to her chest. “Listen to me, I’m an FBI agent. I’m going to rescue you.

She didn’t respond. More tears escaped from her closed eyes. Peter reached into his pocket and retrieved his handkerchief. He put it in her hand and that’s when her eyes opened.

“My name is Peter Burke, I’m with the FBI. I will not hurt you.”

Slowly, her eyes met his. He saw past her bruises and past her scabbed lips and past her glazed and dull eyes. She understood him. He watched with difficulty as she attempted to bring the handkerchief to her face, but she was so weak she couldn’t.

“May I?” he asked.

She nodded once.

He took the cloth from her hand and as gently as possible dabbed underneath her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled sadly and nodded. He saw a bottle of water on the nightstand next to the bed. _Bastards, don’t even give two water bottles._ He made sure the seal hadn’t been broken or tampered with and then unscrewed the top. “Here,” he said lowering it to her lips. She took a few small sips and then turned away. “What’s your name?”

“Victoria,” she whispered.

“Okay, Victoria, I need you to think, is there any way out of this room?” She didn’t respond verbally, only more soft cries followed. “Please, Victoria, think.”

“You can leave, you just knock on the door and he comes back.”

“No, I want to leave with you and the others.”

She shook her head and then slowly turned her head towards him. “You can’t.”

“Okay,” he breathed. He got off the bed and started to inspect the room. He looked up at the ceiling and saw an air vent. That wouldn’t work—they were too damn far below. He went to the door, but there was no handle on this side. He then started to feel against the walls, for what—he didn’t know. And that’s when he heard it.

Crying. Long and deep, loud and painful.

“Neal,” he whispered.

“S-stttt-sttop. Stt-tt--op. It hurts,” Neal slurred.

And then Peter heard the other cries, but these were full of pleasure. “Neal, baby, you feel so good. Come for me.”

Peter slammed his hand against the wall, but this one was not made of glass and couldn’t be broken. He pounded again against the plaster, trying to cover the unholy noise screaming from the other side of it. It didn’t—the cries only became louder—more brutal, more full of pain. He bowed his head down in defeat and watched the floor beneath him become the holder of his tears. They fell and splashed down hard on the cement, creating a puddle near his shoes.

“You stupid slut, can’t even get hard for me!”

Peter heard the hits and the slaps, and then he heard the jagged breathes that could only come from after being punched in the ribs.

“Dammit, Jones! Where the hell are you?!” He screamed into his watch.

And suddenly, there was silence. No more screams, no more cries, no more rusted steel underneath the bed squeaking.

He looked over at Victoria. Her knees were curled to her chest and her hands were over her ears. She rocked  herself back and forth. He sat on the bed beside her, running his fingers through his hair and then wiping the wetness from underneath his eyes. “It’s over, Victoria. He’s done.”

“No . . . he’s not.”

Peter turned around at to face her. He looked into her eyes and pleaded with her to be telling lies.

“I’m sorry,” she slurred, “but he’s not done. He’s just getting started. I know who has Neal tonight, I recognize his voice. He’s a terrible, terrible man.”

And sure enough, a minute later, Peter heard the moans and groans again.

“Yea, baby. You feel so good. I’m really gonna do a number on you tonight.”

“Just kill me!” Neal screamed.

Peter stood up. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t. He leaned over Victoria, who flinched, and put his hand on top of hers. “Whatever happens, don’t move unless I tell you to. I’m getting you out of here.” He didn’t wait for a response and knocked on the door. He knocked loud, over Neal’s cries—he had to.

Thirty seconds later, he was still knocking. No one was coming it seemed.  “Open the goddamn door!” he screamed.

He kept pounding and pounding. It seemed to last forever. When he finally heard that brass key slide against the jagged metal, he realized his knuckles were dripping in metallic red.

The door pushed forward and Riggo was standing there, looking more pissed than Peter thought a man could ever look. Behind him, holding a gun to his head was Detective Olivia Benson.


	9. Chapter 9

“Riggo Lintova, you are under arrest for rape, sex trafficking, and conspiracy,” Olivia said as she brought his hands behind his back.

“Mr. Tuft, eh? Is this play on word for Mr. Tough?” he said, looking at Peter.

“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights?”

“Dah.”

“Get a paramedic unit in here," Peter said, reaching for the key on the floor near Riggo’s feet. "Her name is Victoria and she needs medical attention now.”

“Where are you going?” Olivia asked.

He didn't answer and ran out of the room. “FBI!” he shouted, knocking on the door. He inserted the key and turned it, but it wouldn’t unlock. He tried again and again. “Olivia! Get that bastard over here, now!”

“S-stop!” Neal screamed. His gut wrenching cries had returned, as had his ignored pleas of mercy. “No, please. Please don’t!”

“Neal! I’m here, Neal. I’m here!” Peter yelled.

Olivia pulled Riggo by the arm and stopped at the door, “What’s wrong?”

“Damn key doesn't work,” he answered as he dug into Riggo’s pockets. He retrieved a ring with probably 20 different keys hanging off the fob. “Which one is it?!”

Riggo smiled. “I don’t remember.”

Peter grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and out of Olivia’s grip. He slammed him into the wall hard--harder than he thought possible. “Well try to remember, asshole!”

The smile on Riggo’s face grew. “It has truly slipped my mind, Mr. FBI Agent, sir.”

“Olivia, get me some bolt cutters.”

“And leave him here to run?”

“Then leave him with someone! Or get another agent to get them!”

“There’s not enough of us, Peter. Please, instead of arguing, just try each key until you find it.”

“They’re coming for us, Neal," he heard the rapist say through the door. "They don’t want us together. We have to make this count. That’s right, c’mon baby, show me you really love me, and then I'll give you want you always wanted.”

“Oh god, no. Not again, please! Not that, please, anything but that!” Neal cried.

“Stop it! Please stop! You’re hurting him!” Peter yelled through the door as he tried the third key. By the time he got to the ninth, a deep silence had emerged and filled the hollow space. His hands were shaking so badly at this point he could barely get it into the lock. “Give me your gun, Olivia. Now!” He held out his hand and grabbed the cool metal as soon as he felt it near his fingertips. He pulled the padlock off the door and in one swift motion, kicked the door completely down and to the ground.

“Step away from the bed!” Peter yelled, aiming at the right spot.

“Wow, you sure do hold a grudge, don’t you?” the man smirked. It was as if he didn’t even care the FBI had the place surrounded, or that he was completely naked, or was just caught raping another human being, or that he had a gun pointed at him.

Peter didn’t look at Neal, not yet, for he knew that doing so would weaken his stance. He had to focus, dammit. “Put your hands up and step back towards the wall. Do it now!”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Neal—”

_BANG!_ Smoke whiffed from the barrel, creating a haze that smelled of ash and burning steel. The bullet went right where Peter intended it to go, in his thigh. The man fell to the ground screaming. “Don’t you even begin to think that is pain you’re feeling.”

“Peter!” Olivia called.

“It’s clear, come in,” he said, keeping his gun cocked at the bastard. "Where’s Riggo?”

“Jones has him in custody,” she said, reaching for the gun.

Peter let go and when he saw Olivia was keeping it in place, he finally succumbed to his fears and turned towards the bed.

Neal was on his side with his back facing him. His naked body revealed a mural of colors—including red, which was smeared on his buttocks and thighs. His left arm was still raised with the metal around his wrist. As Peter got closer, he gasped as he saw another chain—this time around a different part of his body.

“Please, please don’t be dead,” Peter whispered as he leaned over. “Neal? Neal, I have to turn you over so I can get this off your neck, okay?”

Peter didn’t want to touch him—he didn’t want to touch his dead friend—but then he heard it: short, definitely panic filled gasps for air, as if Neal knew he was choking to death and was just trying to buy some time. Even if it were for a mere five seconds more. Peter grabbed the chain connected to the headboard and pulled the two feet of it off the ground. He quickly as possible unlooped it from the bars and carefully started to remove it from Neal’s neck.

“That’s it,” Peter whispered, grabbing Neal’s arm—not too hard and not anywhere where finger shaped bruises laid—and rolled him on his back. He lifted his head, just like he would for his own baby boy, and uncoiled the rest. The skin on his neck was red and the imprints of the chain were as clear as daylight.

Neal took a deep breath through his nose and the lines around his eyes lessened just by a tenth. His left eye was dawning a purple hue. just like the color on his right temple; the blood around and in his nose was hardening into crusted flakes—a murderous paprika color.

“You can open your eyes if you want,” Peter whispered.

Neal shook his head slightly and squeezed his eyelids even tighter.

Peter didn’t know if he understood this was over or if he believed whoever was above him was there to hurt him. “I need bolt cutters or a paper clip at least. His arm is still chained.”

“I’ll get one. More paramedics are on the way. Here, take this meanwhile,” Olivia said, sliding off her brown leather jacket, all while impressively still keeping her gun aimed. “How’s he doing?”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. With hands that shook almost violently, he placed the jacket over Neal’s lower body, hoping this provided some sort of dignity. But it didn’t. Tears rolled down his cheeks at a fluid pace, like it was a running faucet. He contained his sobs, too—like they were stuck in his chest and throat, like he knew better than to allow someone to hear them. He attempted to move, back onto his side it seemed, but his face contorted into as if a bee had stung him and he stopped.

Peter subconsciously documented more injuries. His chest was purple with large fist shapes, and they ran down to his stomach and waist. If he were a hunted leopard with spots, he would be shot dead in a matter of seconds. And then Peter noticed the cuts. Thin, perfect red lines underneath each one of his twelve ribs. And every time Neal breathed—which was a horrible and ragged sound—the skin would stretch more and more, revealing the true state of emaciation he was in.

Peter attempted again to break the headboard, all without trying to disturb Neal’s wrist. Sweat poured down his face, or perhaps they were tears, he didn’t know anymore. “Aaah, dammit,” he said. He tried again, and again, and again. He wouldn’t give up. He just wouldn’t.

“Promis—promised . . .” Neal whispered.

Peter stopped and leaned in. “What is it, Neal? I’m trying, I really am. Please, just hold on a little while longer.”

"You promised!" he screamed with his eyes still squeezed shut. His voice was so hoarse and rugged; it sounded like chards of glass scraping against a chalkboard--and it must have felt like that too, because blood spilled from his mouth. Red coated his tongue and teeth. It dribbled out of the corners of his mouth like melted cherry jell-o. And then loud sobs came, elicited from deep within and exposed through his battered lips. Tears flowed in rapid succession and with every ounce of energy left in him, he rolled onto his side, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.

“You promised!” he screamed again. “You promised you would kill me this time!”


	10. Chapter 10

The navy blue was turning cerulean, with orange and hints of yellow swirled in. This, to Neal, was very, very strange. He hadn’t seen the sunrise, or the sun for that matter, in . . . months. But he didn’t get startled, or question just where he was exactly, or how the room he was in smelled so much of sterile plastic—he just watched the sun

_Beep, beep, beep._

_Was that a heart monitor?._ He finally started to take in his surroundings and saw a white plastic clip over his finger. _A pulse oximeter?_ Then there was the white bandage over his left wrist. The blue blanket over his lower half. The white gown over his chest. And then he saw a door that was wide open. He could leave! A woman in dark blue scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck walked past.

Hospital. He was in a hospital.

_How?_

Wasn’t Riggo just inserting the needle into his vein? But that’s when everything got hazy—like it always did. He legs turned to jelly and his limbs weighed thousands of pounds. Someone also combed his hair—they liked it like that. And the very last thing he remembers is standing almost naked in that cold room with the glass walls.

“Vicki?” he whispered. She always came to him the morning after and helped him drink some water because he was always too weak and beaten to do it on his own. He cleared his throat but it burned badly. “Victoria?” he whispered again.

And when no one answered, he suddenly forgot how to breathe.

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

“Mr. Caffrey?” A woman with dark red hair, bold black glasses, and dressed in white lab coat entered the room. “Mr. Caffrey, I’m Dr. Fayne. You are in the I.C.U. at Mercy Hospital,” she said, reading the machine. “You’ve been here for the last 48 hours. I need you to calm down, take long deep breaths, please.”

He tried to sit up, but the second he tried his ribs exploded with pain—a familiar feeling.

“Neal, I need you to remain lying down. You are going to tear your stitches out. I’m going to put a nasal cannula under your nostril to help you breathe, okay?”

“Is Victoria dead?” he whispered.

Dr. Fayne adjusted the cannula so it sat comfortably around his ears. “No, Victoria is alive. She is a couple of floors down, resting.”

He closed his eyes as a brief relief washed over him. “And . . . the others?”

“Please, Mr. Caffrey, I need you to rest. Your body has been through terrible trauma.”

He wanted to put up a fight, he really did, but he had learned the hard way some time ago that he was no longer a winner in that respect. And so, he did as he was told.

*****

“Agent Burke there is no reason to get agitated. This is just for my complaint, “Assistant District Attorney Louis Walsh said. “I want to put these guys away for a long, long time, and to do that I need to you to walk me through it again so I have all the facts correct, okay?”

Peter sighed and nodded in defeat. He tipped his empty styro-foam cup over and watched with intense curiosity as it rolled a few inches away from him. A cup of coffee was so simple. You make it, pour it, and drink it. But after living through the last 48 hours, nothing really seemed that simple at all.

“Now tell me again about the bidding process. You said there was a woman on the intercom, did you ever physically see her?”

“No, I already told you that. I didn’t even know what was happening until it happened..”

“You said you knew one of the victims. A Mr. Neal Caffrey?”

Peter closed his eyes; the raw image of Neal standing in the middle of that room while all eyes were him—like he was a piece of meat. And then . . . hearing those pleas of mercy . . . then on the bed, bleeding almost to death. “Yes. He was my criminal informant at the F.B.I up until about a year and half ago.”

“We’ve run Neal’s name through the system. I’m sorry, Agent Burke, but I am confused—the system says Neal is dead and has been for 18 months.

Peter nodded. “It’s complicated. Our last job together, we took down the Panthers—”

“The Pink Panthers?” Walsh asked. He looked impressed. “I read all about that. That was you?”

Peter smirked. “It was Neal, really. He infiltrated their group. He had to pretend to be dead for his own protection. And it had to remain that way—even most of the agents in my division don’t know he is alive.”

“I see, well—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Walsh,” Peter said looking up from his phone, “I have to go. Neal just woke up.”

****

His eyelids were so heavy, like weights sitting on top of them, but he wanted them open.

“No . . .” he slurred.

And it was hot, like his skin was melting off of him. He could feel the wetness from his sweat sticking to him and whatever cloth was on his skin.

He commanded his arms to move, but when they didn’t, he tried his legs. Nothing. And then he realized how everything hurt and didn’t at the same time.

He had felt all of this before—too many times, and he hated it.

He hated the drugs, running through his veins, coating them like thick honey. He couldn’t do anything while on them. Je couldn’t push them off of him, he couldn’t run away, he couldn’t defend himself. He couldn’t walk or run, he could barely scream when they pushed too much of it through him. Only in his mind was he able to feel the pain, the humiliation, and the fear.

“Stop,” he said again.

His inability to do nothing pissed him off, yet again. _Mind over matter, Neal._ So he pushed his eyes open and saw it—the clear bag over his head to the right. There was clear liquid in it and the clear thin tube attached to it ran down, all the way into his vein in his right arm.

That’s when he really panicked.

“No,” he grunted.

And so as lethargic as he felt, he swung his left arm over his broken ribs and in a swift motion, yanked that needle out of him. He threw it to the floor and actually breathed in deep. He marveled at the tiny blood drops that soon appeared, they slid down and onto the white sheets slowly.

Perhaps this time he had won.

******

Peter stepped off the elevator, pushing past a few nurses to get to room 612. The hallway seemed much longer than it had seemed in the previous days. He stayed for hours at a time, sitting, watching Neal sleep, watching him stir—those lines deepening around his strained eyes. He studied the bruises on his arms, on his neck, on his face. Peter cried a few times, just bawled like a baby. Neal wasn’t supposed to be there.

Peter became worried after t he didn’t wake up at all during the first 24 hours. Dr. Fayne told him it was normal, that Neal’s body had been through excessive trauma and the best thing he could be doing was to in fact sleep. She told him the stitches, in various parts of him, would have a chance to settle, that his limbs would be able to heal a little without them moving too much, and his ribs would not ache so much now that they were still.

But Peter was also worried about the sweat. It slicked his face and his hair, it dripped down his neck. Dr. Fayne told him not to worry, that this was good. Neal’s blood had constantly been pumped full of drugs—this was his body pushing it out.

“You mean he’s detoxing. That’s painful,” Peter said to her.

“Yes, it is. But I’m giving him some medication that counteracts most of the unpleasantries of that. The good news is that his body is more exhausted than in pain—which is why he is sleeping rather than thrashing about violently as I’ve seen with others who are detoxing.”

As Peter neared Neal’s room, he saw a nurse jog in. His stomach dropped as he saw Dr. Fayne follow, running in heels and all.

“No! I told you I don’t want it,” Neal said.

Peter, who was near the door, could hear the tears laced within that sentence.

“Mr. Caffrey, you need to have an IV. It’s providing you with much needed nutrients and fluids—”

“Please, please don’t stick that needle back in me.”

“You’re in a lot of pain, I know, but the I.V. is also providing you pain medication to lessen it.”

“I can’t. I just can’t, please. You don’t understand.”

Peter, now at the door, saw the scene before him. Neal was sitting upright in the bed. His black and blue face was stained in fear, desperation, and a whole lot of tears. He held the top of the blanket over his right arm, but the red that stained it was easily visible against the beige of it.

And then Neal caught sight of Peter. His eyes widened and his lips trembled and he quickly brought both of his hands up, covering his face.

Peter, as much as he himself wanted to break down, stepped forward. Dr. Fayne and the nurse stood and watched with timid curiosity. Against his brain telling him not to, Peter followed his gut and sat on the bed. He felt Neal stiffen, almost like a trained response, and it sickened him. He gently touched Neal’s hands and pulled the down slowly, allowing him to see the dried blood caked below on the inside of his forearm.  

Neal’s tears fell at a slow and steady pace, and he still wouldn’t look at Peter.

“Neal, no one is going to hurt you anymore, I promise that on my own child’s life.”

He choked back a sob, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up.

“These nice doctors and nurses only want to help you—that I know. They’ve been here around the clock, and I’ve been watching them very closely.”

“You . . . you’ve been here the whole time?” he whispered.

“Of course I have. At least let them clean this up,” Peter said gesturing his head towards the bloodied arm. “And if you don’t want an I.V., you don’t have to have one. We’ll get you the nutrients and fluids you need in a way that you’re okay with. Isn’t that right, Dr. Fayne?”

The doctor exhaled loudly, not very happy about that proposal, but she could see Neal was calm and that perhaps with Peter’s persuasion, he would later agree to an I.V. “Yes. We’ll do what makes Neal comfortable.”

And then slowly, Neal raised his head and his blue eyes finally looked into friend’s brown ones. “Thank you, Peter.”


	11. Chapter 11

Olivia Benson stood still in the empty staircase of Mercy Hospital, between floors five and six. She went down another step and then all of a sudden, stopped. Her left hand remained on the rail, yet her right one clasped over her lips as she tried to contain the spontaneous burst of sobs that escaped from them.

Her knees soon buckled and she collapsed, hitting her bottom on the cold cement rather harshly. She cried as quietly as she could.

“Olivia?”

She quickly sniffled back her running nose and ran the leather jacket of her sleeve under her eyes.

“Olivia, I saw you duck in here—”

“Elevator took too long,” she said, trying desperately to put on a brave face.

But Peter Burke saw past it. He saw the slickness under her eyes shine off the fluorescent lights. “What did he tell you? What did Neal say?” he asked.

She sniffled again. “I’ve worked Special Victims for almost twenty years. I thought I’ve seen and heard it all, I really did. I’m sorry, this is very unprofessional of me—”

“No its not,” he cut in. “It shows you are a professional, and that you take your work personally—which in that unit is much appreciated. What did Neal tell you?”

“I can’t—”

“He’s my friend, dammit!”

“You think I don’t know that?” she cried. “That’s why he made you leave when I questioned him, he doesn’t want you to hear it. He doesn’t want you to know! Christ, he didn’t even know that you were there the night we rescued him—he has no idea you tried to outbid George Maze, or that you’re the one that shot him in the leg.”

Peter looked down at his feet, his lips quivering. “He doesn’t?”

“No,” she said, standing up. “The doctor said he had so much rophenol in his system that she was amazed his heart didn’t just stop.”

Peter sighed. Every word coming out of everyone’s mouth these days was worse and worse, and the hollowness of the pit in his stomach deepened every time. “The doctors won’t share any information with me because I’m not family. And Neal is pushing me away. Please don’t shut me out. I need to know what he went through, so that I can help him get better.”

Olivia ran her hand over her face, wiping away the exhaustion, and nodded.

*****

“Neal, my name is Olivia Benson and I’m with Special Victims of the NYPD. Can we talk?”

He was upright picking at the bandage around his arm. Olivia looked at Peter, who was sitting underneath the television and he nodded.

Olivia sat down in the chair next to the bed. “I’m working on your case, Neal, and I know this is hard, but I need to ask you some questions about what you’ve been through.”

Neal again didn’t say anything.

 “Peter here says that you were living in Paris. How did you end up in New York?”

“I learned that Peter and his wife had a baby, so I came back to see him. I was going to surprise you,” he said, turning to Peter. “I didn’t even tell Mozzie I was coming back. No one knew I was here.”

“How long were you here before you were abducted?” Olivia asked.

“Not even a day. I just got off the plane at JFK airport . . . I felt someone watching me—I remember that—as I walked through the airport. I got in a cab, and a man I had never seen before jumped in with me. I think he stuck me with a needle because I don’t remember what happened after that. When I woke up . . . I was in this cold and dark room.”

“How long ago was that?”

“What . . . what month is it?”  

“It’s September.”

His eyes widened, but they were soon covered by his hand. Small sobs filled the entire room. “A year, then.”

“A year?” Peter repeated under his breath.

“Oh god,” Neal said, trying to catch his breath.

“Neal, can you tell me what happened in that room? When did you first see Riggo or Boris?” Olivia asked.

His eyes gazed down at his hands. “They both came into that room and made me strip. They . . . they just looked, and touched . . . but it wasn’t sexual. It’s like they were inspecting me. I didn’t know why at that time . . . I do now, though,” he said in between sobs.

“Okay,” Olivia said. “What happened after that?”

Neal’s eyes met hers and then they moved toward Peter, and then they went back down to his hands.

“Peter, would you give us some privacy?” she asked, taking the hint.

“Umm . . . Neal, is that what you want?” he asked, standing up. “Neal?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ll be right outside.”

Neal nodded and wiped his nose with a tissue. It seemed all he had been doing was crying.

“Did Boris or Riggo ever rape you?” she asked after the door was closed.

Neal shook his head, though Olivia had been around rape victims a long time. “Are you sure?”

“Boris was the nicer of the two. He never hit or yelled. Riggo . . . he disciplined us if we got out of line . . .  .or if he was just angry. No one bought me one night . . .”

“What did he do?”

“I . . .,” he started to say, but then his eyes became long and drawn. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Neal, I need you tell me—”

“Why? What difference will it make? He’s going to prison for the rest of his life whether I tell you or not, right?”

Olivia could see he was getting very upset. “Yes.”

“So drop it.”

“What can you tell me about the cuts, under your ribs,” she asked.

He chuckled, but she knew it was sarcastic. “If you’re fat, you won’t last.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what they said all the time. If you’re fat, you won’t last. They said no one would pay top dollar if I wasn’t thin . . . and that it would make me look younger if my bones stuck out. ‘Metabolism of teenage boy’,” Neal said in a mocking Russian accent. “When they could finally see my ribs poking through my skin, they made those cuts so they knew I was finally at the right weight. They said they better see those bones or they were going to cut more than skin.”

Olivia nodded. “Sounds horrible.”

He looked up and stared at her. “It was.”

She cleared her throat and opened up her folder, reaching for the photo she had shown Peter five days earlier. “Neal, I need to show you a picture. It’s unpleasant, but I need you tell me if you know who this woman in it is.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. Olivia handed it to him, and he studied it for a full minute. At first, no emotion was revealed, but Olivia soon saw tears build up in the sea of his blue eyes.

“You found her,” he said.

“Do you know her name?”

“Lily Manter. She was 29.”

“Do you know how she died?”

“Please, Detective Benson,” he said as the tears fell.

“It’s okay, Neal.”

“I . . . I was there. I saw it. She looked at me as she took her last breath.”

“What happened?”

Neal swallowed and brought the photo to his chest. “Lily and I, we were bought one night .by two men . . . they wanted us together, in the same room . . . so they could take turns with us. . . ”

Olivia nodded, knowing how hard this must be for him.

“We didn’t mind so much when that happened. We focused on each other whenever any of us were paired,” he continued. “The guy on top of Lily started choking her . . . that’s what got him off. But, I could see he was squeezing her neck too tight. I . . . I screamed for him to stop—but they wouldn’t listen. The other man started punching me . . . but I could see she was dying and there was nothing I could do.”

“Neal, it was not your fault—”

“How can you say that!?” he screamed. “She was right next to me! I didn’t do anything!

“You were drugged, tied up, being raped yourself—”

“But I couldn’t have fought harder, I know I could have,” he sobbed, clutching the photo so hard that it crumpled in his hand. “It was worse watching that than all the times I was raped combined. She didn’t deserve that! I could have helped her and I didn’t!”

“Neal? Is everything alright?” Peter asked, opening the door. “I heard yelling—” He stopped midsentence, taking in the way Neal was hunched over, trying to breath in between the sobs.

Dr. Fayne was close behind, walking past him. She inspected a few of the machines and then turned to Olivia and Peter. “You’ll both have to leave. Neal, please lay back down,” she said turning towards her patient.

Olivia nodded—she wasn’t sure if she could take anymore herself. She didn’t bother to ask Neal back for the photo and raced past Peter. Peter looked at Neal, whom Dr. Fayne was doing everything in her power to relieve him, and then he looked out into the hallway, seeing Olivia open the door to the staircase.

Knowing there was nothing he could do for Neal at the moment, he followed behind her.


	12. Chapter 12

“I got you vanilla this time,” Peter said, putting down the McDonald’s cup on the table. “I made sure it’s extra thick, just the way you like ‘em.” He frowned when Neal gave no response. He was on his side with his back to him, but his form did not rise and fall evenly. 

“Neal?”

He sighed under his breathe at the lack of response, and slowly he walked around the bed. Neal was staring out the window; the sunlight gleamed onto him, whitening the pallor of skin even more. But his eyes—they were red. Red on the inside, red around the rims, red on the lids. Gigantic tears filled them, and they splashed down his face like rain.

Again, and again, and again.

There were no whimpers, or moans, or gasps for air.

Silence.

And that was when Peter could understand his pain just a fraction more.

“Close the blinds,” he whispered.

And then Peter became lost again, but he nodded and took away the shine.

When he felt able to, Neal turned onto his back and used the bed-rails to ease himself up into a sitting position. As Peter watched him bend and reach for his knees, a stretching exercise he did every few hours, he suddenly felt very sick.

Neal—with the outline of his spine daring to break through the skin in that oversize hospital gown, with his bandaged arm, bandages ribs, ruptured spleen, bruised vocal chords—was gone. This was not the infamous conman, this was not the easy-going jokester, this was not the man with the million dollar smile—no, he was the drug, abused, sex slave only paid to do that.

And Neal knew it.

“Please don’t stare,” he said, reaching for the cup. But it sounded like a question.

“Neal, I need to ask you something, okay?”

“I think I’ll eat one of these, everyday for the rest of my life,” he said, after taking a long sip and ignoring the question. “And if you bring French fries next time, I’ll name _my_ baby after _you_.”

Peter chuckled and sat down. “Wouldn’t that be something, Neal Burke and Peter Caffrey. I can just imagine—”

“You don’t have to. I’m not having kids.”

“You never know.”

“Yes. I do.”

Peter swallowed, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. “What do you mean?”

Neal put the shake down and readjusted his hips. “I would never want to expose an innocent child to _this_ world.”

Peter kept his mouth shut. How could he counter? What could he say to those bruises and cuts and broken bones in front of him? Nothing. He couldn’t win.

As the minutes passed, the knot in Peter's throat tightened more and more. What terrible dread. But Olivia pushed him to ask, 'it would be better coming from you,' she said, 'he trusts you.' God, he just felt sickly thinking about, though. Maybe it was because he already knew the answer and the shame and humiliation it was certain to bring. “Neal . . . would you consider . . . and I know this is a lot . . . but would you consider testifying against George Maze?”

“Who is that?” he asked, tugging at the blanket so it covered his stomach.

 _Christ, he didn’t even know his rapist’s name._ “That . . . man. When we found you that night, he was . . .”

And he didn’t have to finish, because Neal’s eyes said he understood. There was pure fright laced in them, mixed with anger and the understanding that now there was a name connected to those five out of three-hundred and sixty five other horrible nights.

“I’m sorry, Neal. I hate it that I have to ask. He’s got these bastard lawyers, twisting everything around. And he’s got money, a lot of it to walk away—”

“You think _I_ don’t know that he’s got money?”

“No, I . . . of course I know that—”

“I’m . . .I’m going to be sick,” he said, gasping for air as he pushed the blanket to the ground.

“Neal, I’m sorry,” Peter said, “you don’t have to, I just—”

“Stop,” he said, pushing the arm away. He was out of the bed now, but he barely made it to the wall his knees were shaking so badly. The cool taupe paint his hand rested did little to soothe him as he neared the bathroom door.

Peter was right behind him, but he did not dare touch him as he released the dollar-fifty worth of sugar and corn syrup just devoured. Because he knew Neal wasn’t just vomiting up that milkshake--he was vomiting up the touch on his thighs, the saliva left on his neck, and the soft disgusting whispers moans into his ears.

And the wave hit again—bigger, stronger, faster. But these weren’t silent, they were the kind where lightening hit afterward, crushed rocks on beaches, and sent sailboats crashing into piers. His tears soon turned into sobs, and the vomit turned into nothing but dry heaves, and Peter didn’t know which was more painful—being Neal or watching him.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said again.

“Don’t be,” he said, flushing the toilet. “Someone was bound to ask me.”

Peter nodded, understanding this was his way of being thankful it was he who asked. "Let me help you back."

And Neal, so exhausted and weak, nodded. Peter could just feel his knees shaking--was it fear?

They were almost there, back at the bed, three or four more steps, but Neal suddenly stopped. 

“Look at me,” he said.

Peter did as told, and with his eyes and arm locked into his, Neal, perhaps, expectantly, turned what was left of Peter’s heart into stone. But it wasn't Neal's fault, per se. Word were the only form of fight he thought he had left. And even though 99% of the time no one listened, he did it anyways--sometimes until his throat was raw.

“If you, or anyone else, ever asks me to look, talk to, or ‘testify’ against anyone of them again, I’ll slit my wrists in front of you and I’ll make sure there’s nothing you can do about it.”


	13. Chapter 13

Peter knocked on room 409 and waited. 

“Come in,” she said.

He put on his half-smile, the only one he had been displaying these past few days, and entered. He placed the flowers on the table next to the bed. “You probably don’t remember me—”

“Peter,” she said, with a small smile of her own.

He nodded. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

She extended her hand and he grabbed it. “Thank you. You saved my life, all of ours.”

He forced another smile. “I was just doing my job, Victoria.”

“No,” she answered, tightening her grip, “this is different. We were going to die down there. You have to know that. You have to know what you did was special.”

Peter bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and nodded. “How are you feeling?”

She pulled her blonde locks back behind her ears. The bruises on her face had turned yellow, and the cut near her lip was almost healed. Although she looked like her life had been torn apart, because it had, she looked a hundred time better than the first time Peter laid eyes on her. “Better.”

“I heard  they might be discharging you soon—”

“Neal talked about you . . . a lot.”

Peter’s head jerked up. “He did?”

She nodded, wincing as she changed positions. “I . . . would cry a lot. He was always the best at calming me down. He would hold me at night, tell me these crazy stories about an FBI Agent named Peter Burke. I thought he was making them up at first . . . they were too crazy to believe . . . but then I liked them . . . I didn’t care if they were real or not, because I never knew how it was going to end.”

Peter smiled.

“I’m . . . sorry I didn’t recognize you at first . . . down there, when you told me your name—”

“Don’t worry about that, Victoria.”

She nodded and smiled sadly. “Are you here to ask me questions? Detective Benson was here a few times already.”

“No, I was here to visit Neal, but he’s sleeping, so I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

“How is Neal? Nobody will tell me anything about him.”

Peter sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “As good as can be expected , I suppose . . . but how the hell are you supposed to handle something like this?” He said that last part under breath, and didn’t expect Victoria to hear it.

“He had it worse than most of us.”

Peter noticed his fingers twitch, but he pressed on. “How so?”

“He got beaten more, used more. People paid double for him all the time. ‘Pretty boy’ is what he was called. And he was the only went out during the day.”

“I’m sorry, can you explain more?”

She nodded and wiped her eyes. “We were auction off only three times a week—night time, we guessed. I had been there about three months, and I noticed right away they would take Neal during the day, every other day it seemed. He always came back barely able to walk . . . sometimes he was bloody, cut, bruised.”

“Oh,” he said sadly.

“But I say Neal had it worse because . . . we were always drugged you see, but when they took Neal during the day, they always left him lucid. He felt everything. And he wouldn’t talk afterwards. We tried to console him, clean him up. He wouldn’t respond, he would just stare at the wall . . . he wouldn’t even cry. It scared us.”

Peter cleared his throat, trying not to cry. “Where did they keep you? Umm . . . when . . .”

“When we weren’t being auctioned? They had this room, kind of like a big dorm. There were about 10 bunk beds, a small bathroom. The only nice thing they did for us was keep us together, I guess.”

Peter couldn’t hold back any longer and let the tears flow as she continued.

“I overheard Detective Benson on her phone when she was in here yesterday,” she said. “Is . . . George Maze going to go free?”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed the tears under his eyes away. “I don’t know.

Victoria shook her head, almost violently. “He can’t, Agent Burke. Not after what he did to Neal.”

“I know. I mean, Christ, I witnessed just one night, and still, the D.A. doesn’t know if my testimony would hold up against his slick lawyers.”

Victoria opened her mouth and took a breath, as if she were going to speak, but no words came. Peter caught this and he did not let it go. “What is it?”

Her top lip came down over her bottom and her gaze became long and drawn. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“Victoria, please, there’s something you’re not telling me,” he said, standing up. “If you know something, something that would help—”

“That’s just it, Agent Burke, I know it would, but it would destroy Neal even more than this whole situation has.”

Peter shook his head. “I . . . I don’t even know what to say. You’re probably right—if you know something that would put this Maze away, but you don’t want to tell me, I probably don’t want to know . . . but I need to know. I need to be able to tell Neal—and every single one you—that at least somebody got what they deserved.”

“There’s a . . . video tape.”

Peter nodded as the tears came again. “And you know for certain what’s on it?”

“I was there.”

Peter looked up, his lips parted, his eyes asking the questions.

“They made us watch,” she said. “They chained us to the wall, six or seven of us. We were awake—drugged, but we felt Neal’s pain. For five hours we just . . . sat there, listening to him scream. He tried not to at first, but then Riggo joined in. I think it was the first time Neal ever had more than one at the same time,” she said in between sobs.

“And when it was over . . . they just left him there on this wooden table. He wasn’t even tied up . . . but he was . . . he was so hurt. We all thought he was dead. I just close my eyes and I see the blood dripping off the table…”

“Stop,” Peter whispered. “I know that’s an unfair request, but please . . . stop.”

Victoria nodded. “Neal would . . . well I don’t know what he would do if anyone saw the tape . . . but get it, put these bastards away, please.”

Peter nodded. “Tell me where it is.”

******

“Peter, we found it,” Olivia said into her cell.

He stopped pacing the sidewalk outside the hospital and nodded, knowing that she couldn’t see him.

“It was behind a secret wall,” she said. “We had to get a special team down here to deconstruct it, but we got the tapes.”

“Tapes?” he repeated.

“Yes, rows and rows of them. We got them, even more than we already did. No lawyer could spin this.”

“Probably be a closed trial—if they don’t agree to a jail sentence before that. Only a judge will see it, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good.”

*****

Peter still hadn’t yet decided whether he was going to tell Neal about the discovery of the tape by the time he walked into his room.  He entered quietly, not knowing whether he was asleep or not.

The blinds were closed, expectantly. Neal cried every time they were open for too long—it was a sight too sweet for him bear, or perhaps it was too cruel to believe it was real.

Neal once again had his back facing him, but this time his form rose and fell quite evenly. He may have even heard light snores. Then he noticed the empty wheelchair next to the bed. He stepped closer and saw blonde hair resting underneath Neal’s chin. Victoria was nuzzled in his arms, asleep as well. The two were so small and underweight that they fit comfortable in the narrow bed.

Peter noticed the layer of crusted tears underneath Neal eyes, possibly Victoria’s as well, thought it was hard to tell from the angle he stood at.

He sighed and took the seat next to them, watching them sleep as peacefully as they could. Let them have their dreams while they sleep, only to bear the nightmare while awake.


	14. Chapter 14

“Not so bad, eh?” Riggo said, pulling a long drag on his cigarette.

Neal didn’t respond. He had slid off the table 20 minutes earlier and was just starting to feel the sensational pain running through his body. The two were alone now; the other man/pig/monster was the first to leave, and Riggo took his time shuffling his friends out of the room.

“ _This happens to you if you don’t obey_ ,” he said as he dragged each away.

Neal touched his cheek lightly, wincing as he felt the hot and swollen skin. He felt Riggo's eyes on his naked body, but he sadly didn't feel bashful. This was his life now.

Always exposed.

“Clean yourself,” Riggo said, throwing a damp washcloth at him.

It landed in his lap, and as much as he wished not to obey another command, wiping away the blood and semen sounded sickly like heaven.

 

“You’re as good as they all claimed,” Riggo said, exhaling and dropping the cigarette to the ground. He stomped on it and ran his shoe back until black streaks of ash coated the cement beneath him.

“They didn’t have to watch,” Neal said quietly.

“Dah, Neal, dah,” he said, making way over to the table. He ran his fingers through Neal’s hair, and Neal could do nothing but stare at his knees. “They learn from this. You do, too.” He took his other hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out his pack of Malboro menthal lights. “You want one?” 

“No.”

“Yes, you have one. Helps with hunger. You won’t eat rest of day, I’ve decided.”

Neal sighed and accepted the already lit cigarette.

“You think I bad man, Neal?”

Neal exhaled, watching the smoke leave his mouth. “It doesn’t matter what I think, right?”

Riggo chuckled. “Always the quick one. I no bad man, Neal. I take opportunities. You ever take opportunity to make your life better?”

And for some reason, Neal believed Riggo was talking about his former life. The FBI, Peter, Kate, Mozzie. Those were opportunities, were they not? And he shit all over them. Always did the wrong thing, the backwards way, the roundabout way. His life didn’t have to be the way it was—he chose it.

And while he pondered all this, sickly sharing a cigarette and a conversation with his captor and rapist, he felt the familiar sting in his arm. He looked down, seeing the stick of ash in between his fingers and Riggo’s thumb on the plunger.

He saw Riggo take the cigarette stub and throw it to the ground, but everything was already hazy. He couldn’t move his limbs and he couldn’t stop the drool dripping down his mouth.

“No,” Neal slurred, hunched over and blinking lazily as he stared at the table leg.

Riggo chuckled slightly as he put his arms underneath Neal’s sockets and lifted him. “You pretty boy, you,” he said, laying him down on the table. Neal’s arms were lifted above his head and the chains were tightened. 

“Blee—bleeding . . . down there,” Neal stuttered as he heard the crisp tear of what could only be a condom wrapper.

“So no lube this time, dah?” He pulled Neal’s legs apart and pushed them back as he slowly entered him. A sick smile spread evenly across his lips as he watched Neal’s face contort with every inch. He went at this extremely slow pace for several minutes, savoring every sadistic second.

Neal’s tears fell continuously down the side of his face, pooling around his earlobes. His cries weren’t loud though--he knew no one would hear him.

Eighteen excruciating minutes later, Neal felt Riggo’s large hands grasp his hips, squeezing them to the point that he couldn't get a breath in or out.

As Riggo slowly pulled out, Neal bit his lip so hard that the scab on the bottom opened—burst really. Warmness spread over them and the strong metallic scent infiltrated his nose like raw cinnamon.

His eyes were blurry from the tears, but he heard the wonderful sound of pants being pulled up and a belt being buckled. The strong smell of cigarettes returned as he heard the lighter ignite. Riggo, now standing over the table, stared as he puffed and puffed away. He ran his fingers through Neal’s hair again, and then tapped the hot ash on his bare chest. He lowered himself, ninety degrees, until his mouth was next to his ear.

“You will be mine forever, Neal. Never let you go.”

The door soon closed behind him, and the sharp sound of the lock being turned followed, and Neal still chained and bleeding, did the only he could.

He screamed.

 

 ******* 

He woke with a sudden jolt, sending him upright. His breathing was out of control, that he knew, and wheezing loudly wit all his might, he tried to force air into his lungs. _But it’s too hot for air,_ one side of his brain argued. _It’s not hot, why are the sleeves of your hospital gown freezing cold and wet?_ his other side countered.

He ran his forearm over his forehead, and when he brought it down to his chest he saw the fresh slick coat of sweat. Cold shivers ran down his spine as he felt the damp cloth underneath him.

As his brain argued, he unknowingly took in deep breathes.

“You—you were having a nightmare,” Peter said. He was at the edge of the bed, in his chair, with his elbows in his knees. His fingers covered his mouth, but not his eyes which were full of unfallen tears. “I tried . . . to wake you up—”

‘ _Blee—bleeding . . . down there.’_  he heard Neal whimper as he watched him toss and turn. _‘Don’t make them watch , please.’_

Neal grabbed the blanket and lifted it, letting what felt like spearmint eat his skin with coolness. _It wasn’t a nightmare!_ his brain yelled. “Sorry,” he whispered as he pushed himself out of the bed.

Peter jumped at the movement, and instinctively followed him. Neal barely made it the bathroom, but it didn’t really matter, because once his knees hit the beige tiles, nothing went into that porcelain bowl.

Seconds later, Dr. Fayne entered the room. She looked around, and by the time she faced Peter, who was leaning against the wall next to the closed bathroom door, her left eyebrow was raised, though, it lowered the moment she heard Neal’s strained attempt.  

“Help him,” Peter said under his breath as the tears fell.

Dr. Fayne’s expression softened. “I’m trying to.”

Peter shook his head. “He can’t keep food down—he can’t sleep for more than an hour . . . ”

“Neal will not get better overnight. You have to understand that.”

The awful retching noises continued, and Peter could just feel Neal’s sore ribs aching, and the terrible underwhelming he must have felt at not being able to release the pit in his stomach that was making him so ill.

“We’re watching him die,” he said.

Dr. Fayne nodded. “Yes, we are.”

“And how can you stand for that? Being a doctor of medicine?”

“I can’t. But as a doctor of medicine, I’ve seen what the human body _and_ mind are capable of. Extraordinary things, Agent Burke. And I tell you this, Neal held on for this long for a reason. His body may want to die, for a long time now, but his mind wants to live.”

“So I’m supposed to watch him suffer?”

“Yes,” she said. “All we can do now is wait for the two to catch up with one another so they’re on the same page, and I’m hoping with a little bit of both of our guidance, they choose to live.”

The sound of the door opening sent Peter’s sleeve to his eyes. He wiped away the wetness and forced a half-smile.

 “Not feeling well, Neal?” Dr. Fayne asked.

He leaned against the wall, with red and exhausted eyes, and shook his head as he shuffled slowly back towards his bed. Peter walked behind him, ready to catch his almost swaying body in case it collapsed.

“Why don’t you have a seat in the chair? I’ll send a nurse to change these sheets for you.”

Neal didn’t verbally respond, but he shuffled past the bed and let his rear fall heavily into the chair.

“In the meantime, Agent Burke was just telling me he was going to get some popsicles from the lounge, isn’t that right?” she asked, turning around.

“Uh, yea. Yes,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he left, Dr. Fayne approached her patient. Neal held out his wrist and she took a reading of his pulse. “Neal,” she said, reaching for her stethoscope, “I want you to think about letting me put an IV in.”

He leaned forward as she placed the stethoscope on his back. “I know I need one,” he said, taking a deep breath in, “I just . . . hate how it looks.”

“I know,” she said, placing the medical instrument back around her neck “But you are going to feel so much better, just having some fluids and antibiotics in you. They don’t make you drowsy or anything.”

He leaned back and let out another long deep breathe. “I’ll think about it.”

She smiled. “Okay, let me get a nurse in here with some fresh sheets.”

Neal was now alone, and he stared at the bed covered with stains of his sweat. His eyelids soon became intolerable and heavy. He bowed his head down to chest, but he wouldn't sleep. Instead, he looked down at his arms. His fingers grazed the fading needle marks, and then they traveled to his his stomach. He placed both his hands on his ribs, feeling the ridges, and then they traveled to his hips. His squeezed them slightly, he doesn’t know why—but he does really—and Riggo was there, in front of him.

“Neal?”

His head snapped up to see Peter standing next to him holding two sticks of ice—cherry and orange. “I’m fine,” he said, reaching for the orange.

Peter nodded. He forced the cherry popsicle into his mouth, though it was the last thing in the world he wanted.

“You should go,” Neal said, biting the tip off.

“You want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I see how sad you are when you look at me.”

Peter dropped his barely eating treat in the plastic trash bin near his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Neal said, taking another small bite. “Or mine. It’s theirs.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll come back later though, okay?”

Neal’s blue eyes gazed up and towards Peter. He nodded. “Sure.”

Peter turned and walked to the door. He turned again, looking one more time at Neal, who mindlessly sucked on the cold flavored ice. He knew Neal better than anyone, he liked to believe, so he understood the meaning of this conversation; the flawlessness, the simplicity.

There would be no need to come back later.

Neal had just said ‘goodbye’ to him.


	15. Chapter 15

“Are you coming to me or am I coming to you, Suit?” he asked, shuffling the cards.

“How could you possibly see me, Mozzie?” Peter sighed. “I’m standing behind you.”

“I don’t need my eyes to smell the stench of pi—police enforcement.”

Peter walked around the shorter man, giving them both plain view each other. The two stood in silence, listening to the birds chip and the light wind rustle around them. “How’s he doing?”

“I haven’t any earthly idea what you mean by that,” he answered, placing the cards down.

Peter gritted his teeth. “I haven’t seen or heard from him in three months now. The trial just ended, I want to tell him those bastards got everything they deserved.”

Mozzie spread the cards out evenly. “He knows.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Peter said. “How’s he doing?”

“Fine.”

“Fine? That’s all you’re going to say to me? I’m not the enemy, you know—so why the hell you treating me like one?”

The bald man finally looked up. “I’ve been told, although I don’t necessarily agree, that I’m more believable when I don’t look directly at someone.”

“So Neal is not fine.”

“No,” Mozzie chuckled—though it was quite sarcastic. “Neal is not fine. He’s probably never going to be ‘fine’. And he wants to be alone. Respect that.”

“I want to see him.”

“He left three days ago. Went back to Paris.”

Peter was now the one who chuckled. “You’re right, Moz. You are _much_ more believable when you keep your head down.”

*****

“We’re 3 and 0, now,” Peter said, after entering the front door.

“Is it 3 and 0?” Neal answered, turning the page of the book in his lap. “I thought it was more than that.” He was sitting with his knee to his chest in the vintage, velvet dark orange armchair next to the window. The blinds were closed, but Peter knew behind them was the picture perfect view of the frozen lake in which this cabin was plotted next to.

Peter bit his lip and swallowed uncomfortably. The fourth time he found Neal was down in that hellhole three and half months ago.  “It’s nice up here, peaceful. I didn’t see another house for miles.”

“I know.”

“And you’re like an hour away from Canada.”

Neal kept his eyes on his book. “Moz sang like a canary, huh?”

“Please, he wouldn’t even acknowledge his own existence. I saw him a few weeks ago, and it took me that long to figure out where you were.”

A small grin spread over Neal’s lips as he turned another page. He was always a quick reader. “Weeks? You’re losing your touch, Peter.”

Peter stepped towards the opposing armchair, and Neal watched without lifting his head.  Now near the lamp, he was finally able see a lot better. “How you doing, Neal?”

He lifted his head and nodded. “Fine.”

But here was the thing about Neal that differed from Mozzie: Neal was able to say the most ridiculous, out-of-this-world sentence, like ‘I saw a pig flying’, while looking you in the eye, and it seemed one-hundred percent believable.

But here was the thing about Peter: he was Neal’s counterpart. So the whole lying to your face thing didn’t really work with him.

So Peter knew that Neal was not fine. He was far from it. Yes, his bruises and cuts were gone—long faded away, but the skin underneath his eyes were gray, almost hindering on black, because Neal hadn’t slept in days—maybe even weeks. A nap here and there forty minutes at a time didn’t _really_ count. And, he hadn’t gained _any_ weight—evidenced by his cutthroat cheekbones and the almost extreme bagginess of the long-sleeved shirt he had on.

“You been sleeping enough?”

“Yes,” Neal lied.

“And eating enough?”

“Yes,” he lied again.

Peter nodded. What was the point of asking these questions, he wondered. “It’s Neal’s birthday next week. Two years old, can you believe it? We’re having a small party, you should come.”

“Sure,” he said.

Peter smirked. “You’re just saying that.” Neal didn’t respond. “So what do you do up here? Paint?”

“I don’t paint anymore.”

“You should.”

“Okay.”

“You want me to leave, don’t you?”

Neal sighed and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Do you really think being alone is good for you?”

“It’s probably not, but it’s what I want. And I really _earned_ my freedom this time,” Neal chuckled. “Don’t you think?”

“You look awful, do you know that?”

“I’ve always appreciated your honesty, Peter.”

“Come back to Brooklyn with me.”

Neal sighed and closed his eyes. “I can’t be around people anymore, I’ve learned.”

“That’s not true, Neal. You’re a people person. You feed off of others.”

“No, I _used_ to. Do you know how strange it is for me to just walk into somewhere as simple as a Starbucks? All I see are people sipping lattes and tapping away on their laptops, everything is perfect. And I just think about how I wasn’t able to do that for so long and that maybe I shouldn’t even be here.”

Peter nodded, “I can understand how you feel—”

“But that’s the thing, Peter, you _can’t_. You can imagine, but it’s so much worse. I can’t move forward, and it’s not that I don’t want to, I just can’t. I’m in this limbo, but it’s a lot closer to hell than you think.”

Peter sighed. What he was saying made so much sense, but he was in so much pain that he knew this was not a good environment to stay in. “What about Victoria? Have you kept in touch, or the others? Maybe talking to them—”

“Victoria killed herself two months ago.”

Peter’s lips parted and he knew his eyes had widened in shock. No, not Victoria.  

“She couldn’t . . . I get it, though . . . as much as I don’t’ want to,” Neal said, closing the book.

“Christ . . . Neal, please. Come back with me—”

“You think that . . .” he started to say, tears building in his eyes for the tenth time that day, “I would do that?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Peter said, truthfully. “I’m looking at you right now. You’re not alright, and you don’t have to be right now, but . . . I’m scared.”

Neal nodded as he looked down at his hands, the tears had now fallen. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be alright . . . I have to accept that idea. And . . . Victoria must have felt like that. She didn’t want to live everyday feeling this way. You can’t say she was wrong—”

“I don’t want you to hurt—”

“You saw what they did to me!” he yelled. “I know you did. You took that goddamn chain off my neck, I remember. It hits me at different times, these flashbacks, where I was all drugged up and don’t remember a thing, but then I do later on.”

“Yes, I was there. I heard you being raped by George Maze, and there was nothing I could do about.”

Neal nodded as his tears fell at a rapid pace. “And I know you found the tapes. I got a transcript of the trial. I don’t know if you saw what was on there, and I don’t think you have—because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye.”

“I didn’t tell you about the tape because I didn’t want to upset you,” Peter said softly.

Neal laughed, but it was devoid of joy. “How could I get upset? I’m _always_ upset.”

Peter looked down at the floor.

“I don’t want to kill myself,” Neal said quietly. “But I am depressed . . . I have that right, don’t I?”

“I’ll help you, however I can. You know I will.”

“But every time you look at me, you look so . . . you look at me like I’m going to break, and I’d have to pretend to be okay and I really don’t feel like doing that. At least here . . . I don’t have to pretend. I can sit here, sad, reading my book, cry all day if I want . . .”

“Do you do that? Cry all day?”

“Sometimes,” Neal said, sniffling.

“I hate that. I wish so badly I could take away your pain, Neal.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“I could come up here, every couple of days, just for some human contact.”

Neal shook his head. “That’s a long drive.”

“It’s not a problem. I would be happy to do it.”

“Please,” Neal said, his voice shaking, “stop being so nice to me.”

“You deserve it. Do you hear me, Neal? You _deserve_ to be treated nicely.”

And Neal was so messed up in the head that he didn’t really think that was true, but he answered in the affirmative nonetheless. “Okay.”

But Peter knew he was just saying it to say it. He sighed, feeling helpless and he knew it was unfair of him to feel such—this is probably how Neal felt every passing second of every passing day. “I’ll leave, because I know that’s what you want, and I want to respect that, but let me make you something to eat first, please?”

“We both know you don’t know how to cook, Peter,” he said, running his hand over his exhausted eyes.

“Oh, that’s not entirely true,” he answered, standing up and walking towards the refrigerator. He opened the beige door and curved his spine forty-five degrees. Half a cucumber, a rotten apple, and a full loaf of sliced bread with green mold all over it is what he found. “Well, I see you must hunt your own food up here.”

“What?” Neal asked, walking towards him.

Peter let out a long sigh as he closed the door. He turned around and saw Neal was now upright; with his form long and tall, it was clear how underweight he had remained.

Neal felt his eyes on him, looking him up and down—slowly, like he was to be devoured. It made him sick. “Stop.”

“I know I said I would, but I can’t leave you here.”

“I’m not your problem anymore, Peter.”

“Dammit, Neal. You were never my problem. You’re my friend. I care about you like family—you still don’t get that?”

“Well I never had any family that cared about me before, so the concept is a little foreign to me.”

Peter shook his head and walked past him, going towards the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Neal asked, following.

“Packing your things,” Peter answered, opening the closet door.

Neal stood, motionless as he watched Peter throw his three shirts and pair of his other sweatpants into the duffle bag that was previously on the floor. He watched him head into the adjacent bathroom, heard him rustle up his can of shaving cream. He watched as finally Peter stood before him with the duffle bag in his hand. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Why are you doing this?” Neal asked, leaning against the wall, exhausted.

“You said you didn’t want to kill yourself.”

“I don’t.”

“Well me leaving you here, with no food, letting you toss and turn for days, maybe weeks, letting you sit here and cry and waste away—that would be _me_ letting you kill yourself.”

“I should have gone deeper into the mountains,” Neal said under his breath.

“You want to be alone? You don’t have to leave the guest room, you don’t have to talk to Elizabeth, you don’t have to see the baby. You can sit in the chair in my house and cry if you want—all day long—but I will make sure you eat, I will make sure you sleep, and I’m going to try and get you to talk to someone or take up painting again, or something so that I know one day you might be okay again.”

Neal had long crossed his arms, and now he looked—gazed—mindlessly at the space in front of him. “Why do you think that’s fair? Who are you to dictate what I should do?”

“I’m not dictating, I’m pushing you—because you need it.”

“Bullshit,” Neal said, shaking his head.

“Neal,” Peter said, dropping the duffle bag to the ground, “I’m offering you a hand, and I think you should take it.”

“I can’t go with you to make _you_ feel better,” he said, finally looking at him. “I just can’t do that.”

In all honesty, Peter wanted to do nothing more in that moment and cry—cry and cry and cry, just like his little baby back home. He wanted to fall to the floor, thrash his legs and arms out and about and scream. A tantrum so loud the birds outside would jump from their nests in fright. He didn’t do that though—not any of it.

Why did this happen?

Why did they pick _him_?

Why did they devour his body, destroy his mind, and crush his soul?

And Peter still had no answers, not even after the hundreds of hours he spent pondering these questions. So he nodded and tread lightly towards the shell of the man that was once Neal Caffrey. He engulfed him into his arms, wrapped them snug yet not tightly around his skeletal frame, and hugged him.

“I know you want to be alone—but please, Neal, don’t ever feel like you are. That would just break my heart.”

Neal’s always tense shoulders relaxed, just by a smidge. “I know you’re there for me, I never ever doubt that.”

Peter finally released him and he gave a small grin. Whether it was forced or not, Peter couldn’t tell—but that was the brilliance of Neal Caffrey.

A few minutes later, Peter was in his Taurus, waiting for the heat to come on full blast. He rubbed his cold fingers together, looking at the stillness of the wilderness surrounding him.

As he started to drive away, he looked once more in his rear view mirror, at that idyllic small cabin, and he thinks—no he knows, he saw the blinds miraculously pulled back, and Neal Caffrey standing behind that glass, watching him drive away, or perhaps watching that sun set.

And he hopes one day, though he understands it will not be in the near future, that Neal will be able to see just how beautiful it could be. 


	16. Chapter 16

** Epilogue **

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Peter asked.

No, Neal thought to himself as he walked through the metal detectors.

“You don’t have to do,” Peter continued, following behind him.

Neal turned around, almost coming within centimeters of Peter’s face. “Please, just . . . I need to.”

So Neal entered the door. He sat down in the third booth as instructed by the guard. The short partitions next to him were dark green and ugly. He concentrated on them nonetheless as breathing was suddenly becoming foreign nature to him.

Then he saw, but did not hear, the door on the opposite side of the plated glass wall open. He watched his feet shuffle, dragged against the floor due to the metal shackles constraining them. Then there was the bright orange adorning his legs and more.

But Neal couldn’t bring himself to look at the rest, not just yet.

The two guards holding his arm dragged him to the third booth, and Neal, still looking down, knew he was sitting there, across from him, staring.

But Riggo couldn’t touch Neal, not through that thick glass. And Neal, deep down, knew that. But he was inches from his former captor.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced his hand to pick up the phone on the wall. And then was the hard part---looking up and straight ahead.

“You miss me, dah?”

And Neal shivered at the sound of that voice.

“I knew you’d **come** for me **,** Neal.”

“H..ho..how does it feel?” he finally said—though he wished his voice didn’t shake so much.

“How does what feel?”

“To be chained, tossed around, ignored? Does that feel good, Riggo?”

“Like being back home—no cigarettes though, I do miss that, Neal.”

Neal took the phone from his ear and banged it against the glass in anger. “You’re going to die in here.”

But Riggo only smiled.

“Nothing every goes according to plan, dah? You left early….I might, too.”

“Shut up!”

“They feed me here, three times a day. I go outside, one hour a day. I get t.v. twice a week.”

“Shut up!” Neal yelled again.

“I get pillow and blanket. Toothpaste and toilet paper. I never had it so good. You?”

Neal threw the phone at the glass harder than before. It fell limply towards the floor, just hanging there on its string, swinging back and forth.

“Neal.”

That sounded like Peter.

“Neal, it’s okay. We’re leaving.”

He remembers shaking his head, he also remembers Riggo standing up and the guards pulling him towards the door, but there were too many tears in his eyes to see that clearly. And everything hurt again. His head, his stomach, his soul.

And somehow he was outside, walking through the snowy parking lot. He was in the car, heat blasting on him, Peter saying something along the lines of ‘It’s okay,’ and ‘he can’t hurt you anymore.’  

But he doesn’t remember much after that.

The next time he does remember, he was back in the cabin, in his bed, breathing heavily through sweat and tears.

“Peter?” he calls out.

But no one answers. And he doesn’t know whether he had dreamt it or not.

 

*****

Neal left the cabin on December 31st, a little before midnight.

Contrary to Peter’s belief, he was not good at _everything_ he put his mind to, but he had a driver’s license—well, Neal Caffrey didn’t, but Nicholas Park did, and Allen Turner, and so did Harry Townsend. Him and one of his former aliases would take him where he needed to go.

But where exactly where this?

Neal didn’t know.

No one was on the road, which he found a little odd since it was New Year’s Eve, but he was in the middle of nowhere, so in the end, it was alright.

There was nothing but black, open road before him. The headlights of his rented Ford Explorer captured the falling snowflakes, and it was somewhat exhilarating how he paved right through it all.

It was close to six a.m. when he neared the border of Indiana. His tired eyes and constant replay of the Rolling Stones from his iPod told him he needed a break. He pulled off of I-90 W at the next stop and his hand steadied the wheel towards the diner on the right.

He stretched his legs in the parking lot, rolled his neck to work out the cranks, and breathed frosty air in and out as the sun rose. Flamingo pink and tangerine orange.

“Gettin’ up or windin’ down, sugar?” a woman with a nametag that said ‘Dottie’ on it asked.

“Maybe a little of both,” Neal said.

Dottie laughed and grabbed a menu. “Sit anywhere you like, sweetie. Counter, booth—but pick fast, the truckers start comin’ in around 6:30.

He forced a smile and nodded as he sat down at the counter. He pulled off his scarf and unbuttoned his coat, glancing around as he did so. It was your standard, Midwestern, truck stop. At least Neal knew the coffee would be decent. Neal noticed an older gentleman in the back, reading the paper, sipping on tea.

“What’s your pleasure, darlin’?” Dottie asked, pulling the pencil out from her brown beehive of hair. She was older, probably in her mid-sixties, the blue shirt uniform she had on was worn, and it was clear she had been in the waitressing business longer than Neal had been alive.

“Coffee,” he said, but it was barely audible.

“And to eat?”

“Just coffee. Thanks.”

She narrowed her eyes and slowly, her left-penciled in eyebrow was raised. “You travelin’ through?”

He nodded, keeping his eyes down on the menu that he wasn’t reading.

“Well,” she said, “you can’t officially pass through until you try our blueberry pancakes. That’s our specialty.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay—”

“Get them while you can, like I said, the truckers are comin’ in soon. And once that batter is gone—it’s gone. Hey Bill!” she yelled, turning around to the kitchen window. “Pancakes, double short stack.”

Six minutes later, a plate of perfectly golden brown stack of pancakes was in front of him. The blueberries glistened under the light. Steamed whiffed from the top, and it filled his nostrils in delight. And then, something strange occurred.

His stomach rumbled.

“Thank me with your tip,” she said, topping of his mug with coffee.

The batter was perfect. It was so perfectly sweet that he didn’t even bother with syrup. And those blueberries added the exact right amount of tartness to balance it. He was on his second one before he finally realized this was the most he had eaten at one time in . . . well, a very long time. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten anything so delicious.

He was halfway through the third one when his stomach started to cramp a little. He put his fork down and leaned back. He looked at his plate and smiled. Most of it was gone.

True to Dottie’s word, the truckers started rolling in around 6:30, and she was scrambling around getting menus and coffee.  He didn’t want to bother her with the check, so he left the bill underneath his empty mug.

He just hoped the $100 bill would be enough to thank her.

******

He slept in motels in Missouri, Colorado and Arizona. He watched the sun set in Oklahoma, Utah, and the Nevada Desert. He walked on the beach in San Diego and he cried when he saw the sun rise from there one morning.

He took the train up the Californian coast, watching the landscape from the window.

“Hey, mister, did you know the train from Chicago to California makes _forty_ stops?”

Neal turned to his right, and across the aisle was a boy, probably age five or six. He had a Jets baseball cap on, as well as a Jets jersey t-shirt. The woman next to him, presumably his mother, was asleep. “No, I had no idea.”

“Yea,” he said. “It’s the longest train ride in America.”

“Really?” Neal asked.

The boy smiled and nodded. “It’s a three day ride.”

“Wow,” Neal said, smiling. “You must be pretty smart to know all that stuff.”

The boy smiled. “That’s what my mom says. I have to know this stuff, because I’m going to be a train conductor when I grow up.”

“That’s a really cool job.”

“It’s the best job. But, I might also be an astronaut, or a football player. Or I might be all three.”

Neal chucked and nodded. “I’m sure you’ll be good at whatever you decide to do.”

“What do you do?” he asked.

And for some reason, Neal was taken aback by the question. In his former life, he most likely was at one point an astronaut, and a football player—never a conductor, though he may have committed a crime or two on such mode of transportation. He looked again at the boy, who had now leaned towards him, as if his fate depended on the answer to be given. Neal could have lied, said he was a teacher, an artist—that would have been somewhat believable, right?

“I don’t do anything,” he finally said.

The boy’s face scrunched together, confused by the response. “But . . . you have to do something, don’t you?”

And again, for some reason, Neal was taken aback by the question. Was this little boy right? Did he have to do something? “Well, I used to do a lot of things . . . but now, I . . . I’m trying to find something new to do.”

The boy seemed somewhat more satisfied by this. “That’s good. My mom says you can get into trouble by doing nothing.”

Neal forced a smile. “You’re mom is smart, listen to her,” he said, grabbing his unopened Kit-Kat on the empty seat next to him. He stood and placed it in the boy’s hand, then he grabbed his backpack from the overhead compartment and headed forward.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the conductor on the loudspeaker said, “we’re about to arrive in Portland, Oregon. If this is your destination, please exit from the second and third car. Thank you”

*****

By the time he got to Wisconsin, it was mid-March.

He had drunk _real_ coffee in Washington, eaten chicken fried steak in Wyoming, and had multiple slices of Huckleberry Pie in Montana for desert.

He had met hundreds of people—short, tall, fat, thin, all colors and races. Some were rude—most of them were not. It was hard to talk to them at first, it was only small-talk, but the more he did it, the more he felt like his _old_ self. And to Neal, that felt _nice_.

He even found himself laughing, almost like a lunatic, at a bar in downtown Minneapolis a few nights back. Although his sleeping had improved quite drastically for the better, there were still nights here and there where he just couldn’t get his brain to turn off. So he roused himself from the motel and walked the three blocks to Lou’s Tavern. It was there he met Jerry, a retired firefighter—forced to take his pension early because of an injury he sustained to his leg while on the job.

“So Tim, one of the other firefighters in my house, is quoting the dang bible,” Jerry said, “and then the probie goes ‘wow, I didn’t know you listened to Pink Floyd!’”

And Neal laughed like a dang ghoul. Maybe it was the three sips of beer he had allowed himself to actually have, or maybe it was the way Jerry brawled himself at his own story; either way, it felt good.

He drove from Chicago to Cleveland in one stretch, and treated himself to a Holiday Inn instead of a motel. He slept wrapped in the complimentary fluffy white robe and ordered pay-per-view without thinking about the charge.

And finally, on April 1st, he was back in New York.

The snow had melted, yet the air was still crisp with fresh coolness. He parked a block away and walked, letting the smell of the borough attack his senses. Cronuts, harbor sea water, pizza dough . . . life.

His hand touched the railing and up the stairs he went. He didn’t ring the doorbell though once he got to the top. He glanced in the door, seeing his reflection.

_Much_ better.

And that was when the door opened.

“I’m just checking to see if the mail is—”

Neal’s eyes locked with Peter’s—who’s mouth and eyes had widened in almost disbelief.

“Hi,” Neal said.

Peter did one, very, very quick sweep of Neal. He nodded and immediately pulled him into a hug. “Hi.”

Neal patted him on the back once the hug lasted longer than ten seconds, but he didn’t mind when Peter still didn’t pull away.

“I got Neal a gift,” Neal said.

Peter pulled back, allowing him to reach into his pocket.

“It might be too small,” he said, pulling out a little train. “He might put it up his nose or something, but—”

“It’s perfect,” Peter said, nodding. He faced Neal, and placed his hand on his shoulder, subtly breathing a sigh of relief—he didn’t feel bone. “How you doing?”

He could have said great, or good, at least, but he didn’t want to lie. He still had his ‘days’. He’d miss meals for over 24 hours, go without sleep for 48, lock himself in a motel bathroom and cry—wishing it would just end. But they were few and far between his other days—his better days.

“I’m fine,” he said.

As Neal walked into the house, Peter was left on his porch with a smile.

The glass wall had been shattered.


End file.
